Happy Birthday to Me!

It’s my birthday!  It’s the second one I’ve spent in France: my first time “studying abroad” in Grenoble fell over my 17^th birthday, and my host family made a sign for me with my name spelled “Bekkie,” and we had chocolate cake for breakfast.  Rockin’.  This time, I had planned a weekend-long birthday celebration including the obligatory trip to the pub and even an appearance at a boȋte/French nightclub, but my plans got all jumbled up.  After going to Caen, I did end up going to the pub, but so did all the English students and their correspondents, and none of my teachers were available to even out the score, so I left relatively early.  Saturday night, Valérie hosted a going away party for the Huddersfield English teachers, so I treated that as a pseudo birthday party in my head.  But then when I walked by the pub on Sunday morning on my way home from the marché, I learned that it was closed until April 6^th, so no real party at the pub.  Oh well.  Best laid plans, and all that.  And to boot, I woke up the morning I turned 25 with an achy hip.  So, RAMBL, I guess my hash tag would be #25or55.

I Swear I Speak English

When Valérie informed me that the English exchange students would be taking a trip to Caen near the end of the stay and had extended the offer to me, I jumped at the chance.  (Well, more exactly, I did a little jig.)  After getting excused from my two classes that Friday, it was set.  Now all I had to do was board a bus with 31 kids I didn’t know and three adults who I ate lunch with once.

We all spoke English and French, right?  We at least had that in common?

Day Nine: Did We Really Do All That?

I’ve had enough.  This morning, two of Verity’s four pears were stolen, and now you get to suffer through a rant, so fasten your seatbelts kids: this could get punctuation-y.

Those Darn Kids

After the kids promised not to do anything, when I woke up an hour before my alarm on Wednesday, and the cleaning lady told me the kids had blocked all the entrances to the school, I could only shake my head.  I told her that I had thought they decided on protesting Thursday instead, but I guess kids will be kids.  Then the only other teacher from my side of the school came out of her room, and we told her the story.  The cleaning lady said she basically had to sweet talk the kids into letting her past all the signs tied across the gates into the school.  The other teacher swore, saying that she thought everything had been put off ‘til Thursday.

Rinse and repeat for the next couple hours.

Despite telling the teachers they would hold off, I guess a large number of students decided to blockade the entrances anyway from about 6:30 AM ‘til 8 AM, when they let everyone through so both teachers and students could get to their classes relatively on time.  They at least kept to one promise.  A couple of student representatives poked their heads into the teachers’ lounge at the recré and announced that they were doing a mini protest until the bell would ring again 15 minutes later, and that they urged us to attend, as “vous etes concernés”/it’s about you guys.

Oh really? Why, I had no idea.  Thank you for taking that tone of voice with your teachers, young sir.

I’m directly translating for the teachers’ faces that you couldn’t see at the time, and which I found vastly amusing.

After my one class on Wednesday, I immediately left to run to the marché, so I didn’t get to sit their first sit-in in front of the school near the main entrance, but according to Maine Libre, over 200 students gathered, and while that’s nowhere near the combined 1500 Cité Scolaire de Bouchevreau boasts, it’s still a large number of kids who didn’t have to be there.  The first of two articles came out yesterday in the online edition of the newspaper, and it actually quotes two of my students, Valentin and Théo, the latter of whom seems to be the main ringleader of this whole shindig.  Not gonna lie: super, uber proud.

Valentin is the student on the left of the long sign.  The sign says, "un poste à supprimé: celui de l’Elysée"/one post to eliminate: the one in the Elysée, or president's house.  Picture from Maine Libre.

Now rinse and repeat that for today.

Usually on days when I get to sleep in (for a little bit before I go running), I get woken up at least once by the cleaning ladies making their way down my hallway or scraping chairs upstairs or making a general racket somewhere in the building.  This morning?  Nada.  I knew when I checked my phone and it said 7:30 and I heard no sounds anywhere, that the kids had blockaded the school again.  I checked outside my window at around 8, saw the kids and teachers’ cars pouring towards Ampère from the direction of the front gate, and I knew for sure.  Thank God they ended at 8 again, because I definitely did not relish the possibility of persuading my students to let me out of the school in my workout clothes.

When I joined my colleagues for lunch at the Self, I heard snip-its of conversations that mentioned something happening at 1 PM, but whenever I asked about it, I was talked over, so I eventually stopped asking and instead engaged in a conversation about the latest on the serial killer in Toulouse that I talkedabout last time.  Before lunch, one of the teachers learned that he’d committed suicide; I later read that it was a sort of suicide-by-cop.  He stormed out of his apartment after an over 30-hour standoff, guns a-blazin’, and so the police had no other choice but to shoot him.  One of my colleagues said that two good things came out of this whole situation: 1) the murdered Magreb soldiers’ pictures in the newspaper contradict the stereotype of the blonde, blue-eyed French soldier, and the killer’s French nationality shows that not all terrorists come from the Middle East, and 2) without a live suspect, Sarkozy can only minimally use this to his advantage in the elections next month.

But anyway.  During lunch at the Self, a couple of the students took control of the P.A. system to announce a “sit-in” (yep, they stole the English term) at 1 PM in the same spot as yesterday: in front of the main gateway into the school, and they urged the teachers to join them in the effort.  So that’s what everyone was talking about!  I thought to myself: I don’t have class until 2; I like protesting; I’m already probably not going to be allowed back into the U.S.; why not?  So Karine, Lydia, and I ventured down to join the students.  All in all, only five teachers showed up.  I can’t tell if it was because they honestly had work to do or if they’re still a little bitter that 200 kids didn’t show up to support us on Monday.

To be honest, I’m still a little bitter that they decided not to show up during our totally-non-thrown-together protests.  Everyone knew about them: rumors had been spreading since Monday of last week, students and parents had been officially informed Friday, and an article ran in Maine Libre announcing the strike as well.  They definitely cannot claim ignorance.  But these protests aren’t taking time out from classes (there are a few classes that meet during the two-hour lunch block, but not many), so it can’t be because they all want to skip school.  Maybe they finally understand what will happen to their class sizes come the fall?  35 kids to a class is a huge number, and while that’s not a guarantee that there will be that many, it’s still a frightening enough statistic to make kids act.  There was at least the same number of kids today as there was yesterday: some did homework (Karine and I helped one of our premier STG students), some made out, some made paper airlines, the ones in the front held signs.  I saw a whole bunch of my premier L’s and premier STG’s, and they all made a point to say, “Hello,” not bonjour.  The students had alerted the press again, and I recognized the Maine Libre reporter from Monday because she has a rockin’ green saddle bag.  She took a bunch of pictures, though I don’t think I’m in any of them this time, and she interviewed the teachers sitting next to me.  We’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow to get that story, I think.

As of right now, I don’t see these protests ending soon.  Apparently last year, the kids blocked the school for an entire month to protest something about retirement; I honestly don’t know how no one has mentioned that fact to me until now.  There are whispers of a national appel à la grève/call to strike for next Monday, though I don’t think our school will participate even if the unions do formally give strike notice.  But the kids have organized another day of protests: a possible blocus again in the morning, followed by another sit-in during the 1-2 PM hour, followed by — get this! — a possible camp-in after school on the soccer field by the gym!  Ugh, I’m so proud of their creativity, I could burst!  I still think my pretend school session on the soccer field is better, as is Valérie’s idea of getting the parents to call to complain to the rectorat in waves, but this is definitely a step in the right direction.  They’re still waiting on the proviseur/principal to give the okay, but with an idea like that, who could say no?!

Lycée Mort

Here you go!  My first ever video blog!  Let's hope all the stares and ribbing I got while filming were worth it.  I apologize in advance for any rambling, nonsense, or strange facial expressions I make during the course of this video; sometimes I'm not responsible for my face.

Why Is Six Afraid of Seven? Because Seven Eight . . .?

Day Nine is beyond ridiculously long, so I’ll combine only Days Seven and Eight and deal with not completing the joke in the title of this post.  (Rule 4, right?)

Day Seven: Impenetrable

The morning of our last full day in Budapest dawned clear and bright, and I rejoiced, for we would be journeying up to the other vantage point overlooking the city: Buda Castle.  While we ate breakfast, there were two other girls sharing the kitchen with us, and they asked us the requisite questions: where were we from?  How long were we in Budapest?  What would we recommend to do there?  And we bounced the questions back to them.  They were working as au pairs in Geneva, Switzerland (as I had gathered from the American-sounding one when she asserted that they should get a massage, as they wouldn’t be able to afford one in Swiss francs), and one was from Brighton, England while the other was from Washington, D.C. (ha!  I knew it).  They seemed completely amiable, and I found the southern English accent endlessly entertaining, but one niggling nuance bugged me: either consciously or unconsciously, the American girl would slide into a British vocal pattern.

Day Six: Spa/Snow Day!

I woke up the next morning with one thought and one thought only: SPA DAY!

Day Five: In Communist Russia, Tram Rides You!

The day dawned bright but not too terribly cold, and after rejoicing over a traditional tourist breakfast of muesli, yogurt, and a fruit, we headed downstairs to the reception desk in order to ask for directions to the Communist Statue Park.

“Are you sure want to go there?” the receptionist asked, half-standing from his chair. “It’s really far away, and it is really cold.”

“We know,” we answered brightly, hoping to preclude any other attempts at dissuading us.  To no avail.

“There’s a private bus that goes right there, but it’s expensive. . . .” he trailed off, and we nodded.

“We know.  Do you know how to get there through public transportation?”

Even if he didn’t do it physically, he totally heaved an eye roll mentally.  “Hold on one minute.”  He eventually wrote down (illegible) directions to Memento Park/Communist Statue Park (from now on CSP) and advised us to buy a day transportation pass before we finally trooped out of the hostel, teeth pulling complete.

Days Three and Four (Catchy Titles Inside)

As I'm sticking with vow to actually blog this whole vacation before the next one, dangnabit, I decided to combine these two.  Hope you don't mind too much.

Day Two: Dear French Karma: Really?

I spent the night huddled under an extra-thick duvet and a blanket as well as in my thermal pajamas and a sweater.  So much for hotels being better than hostels.  After a disappointing breakfast (and an even more disappointing shower), I head to the train station to see when the next TER to Sessenheim was.  TER trains work like the Metra in Chicago: you buy a ticket for whenever you need to use it, and it doesn’t tell you the train number, time, or direction.  Therefore, I had to ask a SNCF person which direction and which time to look for.  The nice man told me the next train was at 10:54, direction Haguenau.  Okay, fabulous.  I had a little over an hour to kill, and as pretty as I found the Strasbourg train station, I felt like I should, y’know, see Strasbourg itself.  So I booked it to the cathedral to take a quick spin, and wow, I’m glad I did.

Day One: Travel Curse, Be Gone!

A vacation couldn’t possibly be a Becky vacation without a travel problem, and so far this one hasn’t disappointed.

Interference

If you don’t happen to know, 2012 is an election year not just in the United States: France will also elect its next president this year, and it always makes for exciting conversation.  In order to continue, why don’t we review the French political process a bit?  A little French Gov. 101?  Okay?  On y va.  C’est parti.

Pre-Trip Brouhaha

You'll be pleasantly surprised with the fact that I (almost) faithfully blogged throughout (almost) all of the Winter Vacation!  That means you get an actual chronicle of my vacation.  You can commence your celebrations.  Or running away: I'll only judge you a little bit.